


Travails of the Good Grandson

by gubiegubes



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, Incest, M/M, Minor Violence, Swearing, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 10:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12106302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gubiegubes/pseuds/gubiegubes
Summary: Rick treats Morty to brunch. Morty doesn’t know what to make of it. Emotional chaos ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

Saturday mornings used to be cozy, Mom cooking breakfast in the kitchen and Dad watching cartoons in the living room. Sometimes Summer would be playing music from her room as she got ready for the day. Morty would close his eyes and think of good things until someone called him to go down and eat.

Things have been a lot quieter since Dad left. Morty swears that even the birds make less noise, like they're nursing their own morning-after headaches.

It’s no different this Saturday. Morty rolls over and checks his alarm clock. It’s still early. There’s another thing that’s changed since Dad left. There’s no exact time that Morty’s ever been able to pinpoint, but he figures it’s just whenever Rick wakes up. Lately, he’s been trying to estimate, counting down from the moment his gut sends out an insistent jerk that means he’s about to be yanked out of bed, and not for breakfast. Morty starts counting down.

Three, two, one.

Nothing. No shoes stomping up the stairs, nobody yelling or burping his name. It's not like Rick's an early riser, but Morty has a theory that he does it just to fuck with his sleeping in on the weekend. He burrows his face in his pillow, craving more sleep, unable to fall back into it. He's still waiting. His heart begins to hammer through another countdown. Three, two, one. Nothing. He starts again, his heart beating faster than the seconds he counts. Three, two, one. Three, two—

"Morty!"

Rick throws open his door, the already-abused wood wobbling under the impact. Morty can smell that he's already started drinking. There's a dimension where happy hour is every hour of every day, but his grandfather has a serious addiction, one that's trickling through their gene pool. Morty doesn't like to think about it. He feels the shock of a cold palm against his skin as Rick's fingers wrap around his ankle, before Rick pulls and drags him down the bed, ruining Morty's tucked-in sheets in the process.

"Wake up, Mmmmorty. Can't sleep in, already spent five minutes trying to find my other sock and so I just said 'fuck it', time's-a-wastin'."

“Okay! Jeez,” Morty kicks his foot out from Rick’s grip and gets up, rubbing his eyes. He doesn't ask about breakfast, because Summer goes out with her friends and he usually ends up making himself a bowl of cereal anyway. Rick usually lets him do that beforehand, but something else must be more important today. He changes into a shirt and jeans while Rick stares him down, tapping impatient fingers on Morty's desk.

"Come on, come on," Rick says as soon as he's gotten his second foot into the second leg, herding him downstairs and into his space cruiser, throwing the mottled door open for him. Almost a kind gesture, though he shoves Morty inside right after.

"Where are we going, Rick?" Morty asks, resting his cheek on his palm before he's jostled by the ship’s launch.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rick says, and Morty promptly worries harder.

When Rick parks the ship behind Morty's favorite breakfast spot, Morty's surprised.

"Shitty wait if we go any later," Rick says, “that’s why I had to hurry you, Morty. You take too long to do your hair.”

Morty unbuckles his seatbelt, feeling a little giddy about all of it. Brunch sounds wonderfully... normal. "Wow, Rick. We didn't have to fly here. When was the last time you drove a car?"

"Fuck _cars_ ," Rick says, kicking bottles out of the way to open his door, his tone shifting the way it does when Morty knows he’s about to vent, "last time I drove a car I fell asleep. Bros talking about oooh, five hundred ho _uggh_ rsepower, limited slip differential—do I really have to tell you how many lightyears this dimension is behind when it comes to ground transportation alone?”

“Okay, Rick,” Morty says, raising his hands, “I get it—”

“I'll—I’ll show you, Morty. I'll travel all those lightyears with you to show you and—and it'll take less time than it took to get here. _That's_ fast, Morty. For fuck's sake, we use portals, Morty, but grandpa likes the wind on his face. What, you want me to—to rent a shitbox so we can listen to some ABBA tapes? ‘Cause I can get ABBA.”

"It was just a question, like, a joke," Morty says. "ABBA’s okay, but they’re not really my style, you know? I-I'm pretty stoked about this."

“You’re welcome, you little shit," Rick says, hitting his shoulder lightly as they go inside.

Morty orders waffles and bacon, eyeing the different syrups. Rick orders bottomless pancakes.

"Carbs on carbs, baby," Rick says, rubbing his hands together when their waitress brings their plates. "Good for hangovers. Just—just a college tip, Morty."

Morty laughs, though the end of it catches on some nerves as he realizes he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Rick to say, _eat as much as you can, Morty, because there's no food where we're going!_

Rick doesn’t just wake him up for breakfast.

But Rick just spreads the butter around his pancakes, looking pleased as punch, the drool around his mouth looking wetter than ever. Morty pours syrup over his own waffles and cuts into them, just trying to focus on how crisp they are, the insides fluffy and hot.

"You like this place, right Morty?" Rick says through a mouthful of food. "Yeah, bet you didn't know I knew that."

"No, I didn't," Morty admits.

"Grandpa knows," Rick says, waving his knife around, getting maple syrup on Morty's side of the table, on his arm, in his orange juice. He belches, flecks of pancake and spit landing wherever his knife missed. "Grandpa knows—he knows more about you than you think, Morty."

"Oookay," Morty says. He waits for Rick to continue, but he doesn't. He can’t shake the notion that there’s something more, something off. Rick’s barely insulted him and it’s been at least half an hour.

“Waffles good, Morty?” Rick asks, “You’ve barely touched ‘em. We can send them back if they’re not good, bro.”

Morty bites. "What do I have to do, Rick? Just—just tell me, you know?"

Rick gives him a weird look. "Um, you just tell the waitress…"

Morty shakes his head. "Why did you bring me here, Rick? Is it more Megaseeds? Or—or is it something worse?"

"The fuuuuck are you talking about," Rick says. “What did I do?”

Morty stirs around a smaller, sogged up piece of waffle with his fork and shrugs. He hates how Rick makes him feel guilty about it. It’s not like he’d think that for no reason.

“What the hell, Morty,” Rick says. He sits back and stares hard at him. “Megaseeds? That was so long ago. Yeesh, you’re still thinking about that? You're thinking I brought you here to stuff seeds up your ass?”

“Shh, _Rick_!” Morty pales, waving his hands at him to stop. “I-it was a joke…”

“No it wasn't,” Rick says. He points his knife at Morty. “You're starting to piss me off.”

“Never mind, Rick,” Morty says. His urge to speak’s been replaced with thick regret. He doesn’t know what he expected.

"Morty," Rick leans over their plates and lowers his voice, to Morty's relief. “If— _urrp_ —if I wanted you to shove Megaseeds up your ass again, you think I'd bribe you to do it? How many times have you done that for me—for free?”

"I don't know,” Morty says. He stares down at his lap, heat creeping up behind his ears. “I-I-I don’t know if that's supposed to make me feel better or worse."

" _You_? How do you think _I_ feel?" Rick sits back, hand on his chest, looking every bit the under-appreciated grandfather. His voice gets louder as he says, "I just wanted to take my grandson out to brunch. I thought... I really thought you would appreciate it."

"I-I do!" Morty says, conscious of the other patrons turning to watch them. "I do, Rick. Please don't do this. Thanks, i-it’s really great, okay? I love this place. Please."

"I was just eating," Rick gestures down to his plate, "my goddamn pancakes. And I was enjoying them Morty. WAS."

"I'm sorry, Rick," Morty says.

Rick seems annoyed at his apology, because he just rolls his eyes. He reaches into his coat pocket and takes out a flask, uncapping it and emptying the rest into his coffee. Some of it drips over the rim and onto the table, leaving a dark purple streak that reminds Morty of ink. "Whatever."

Morty eats the rest of his breakfast but it's lumpy in his throat now, the flavor lost in the waves of nausea coming up from his stomach.  Was this really the one time Rick tried being nice to him? Did he really just fuck it up?

No way. He's just doing what he always does. He’s bored with the usual shit and he's trying a new way to fuck with his head. Morty shuts it out.

“Could I try your pancakes, Rick?” He asks, hoping to diffuse the tension.

Rick ignores him. There's something about his posture and the way he refuses to meet Morty’s eyes that makes Morty uneasy. Morty doesn't know if he's hurt or angry at being caught, but the idea of Rick being hurt is so absurd, so foreign, that he can’t wrap his mind around it.

“Well,” Morty says, “my waffles are actually really good, if—if you wanna try them.”

Rick looks at him this time. Well, glares at him. He reaches over and takes an entire waffle, dropping it onto his plate.

“Aaw come on,” Morty says, but Rick seems satisfied by this act of vengeance, so he’s strangely okay with it.

They leave when Rick’s on the verge of throwing up from too many pancakes, Morty holding the door for a groaning Rick.

“You—you drive, Morty,” Rick says, and burps so loud that it echoes in the parking lot. “Oh, ugh, whoo, bad idea.”

“Bad idea to come here?” Morty asks, climbing into the driver’s seat and buckling his seatbelt, taking the pockmarked yoke into his hands.

Rick burps again in response, cranking his seat back and leaning against it with a sigh. “Nah. It was good.”

“Yeah,” Morty says and nods, checking his surroundings and lifting off. They’re cruising over the town when he looks over at Rick. His eyes are closed, arms crossed behind his head.

Morty stares ahead, the urge to talk about it bubbling up in his throat again. He swallows it down. He knows it’s a bad idea. Terrible idea.

_Don’t say anything, Morty._

“Rick…”

When Morty glances his way, Rick opens one eye to look at him.

Morty swallows. “Are we—are we going home now?”

“I mean, you’re driving,” Rick says in a matter-of-fact tone. “If you wanna stop by Mcdonald’s, power to your bowels.”

“It’s… but we’re doing something after, right?”

Rick shrugs. “If you want to. I was just gonna get drunk and watch _Two Brothers_.”

“O-oh,” Morty says, “okay.” He laughs in relief. “Boy, you know, I-I really thought you were gonna make me do something like, you know, fucked up.”

“Oh, _did you,_ ” Rick says, sarcastically matching his tone, his voice dripping with derision. “Wow, _you’re welcome, Mortyyyy_."

“W-well Rick, you can’t blame me!” Morty says, indignant, “you’ve pulled this shit on me so many times! Y-you take me somewhere, and then you always drop a bomb on me.”

“Are you serious? Wh…is, is this still about the Megaseeds, Morty? Bribery, Morty? Really? You think I look forward to stuffing seeds up your ass? Is that what this is all about?”

“Maybe you do!” Morty retorts, “yeah, you know, m-maybe you wanna—maybe you wanna put something else up there! I-I wouldn’t put it past you!”

An icy silence settles in between them. Morty resists the urge to screw his eyes shut and turn inside-out.

“U-um, that’s—”

“What the hell does _that_ mean?” Rick asks.

“Nothing,” Morty says quickly, “I-I-I just meant like, other things, because—because sometimes it hurts, Rick, a-a-a-and—”

“You think I want to fuck you, Morty?” Rick’s voice is deadpan.

“I didn’t say that!”

Morty hears the seat being cranked upright and forward, and next thing he knows Rick’s grabbed the yoke and yanked it to the right, straight towards a telephone pole.

“RICK!” Morty screams, overcorrecting, causing the ship to somersault. Bottles and papers fly everywhere, something sloshing and then breaking in the back. An acrid smell comes from it, bringing tears to his eyes. Rick looks positively unbothered by it all, moving with the ship like a crash test dummy. Morty manages to pull the ship up and away from the pole, all those intergalactic federal/mercenary chases proving valuable. “RICK, what the FUCK!”

“Oh! Oh, ho ho _oURRRP_ , just kill me now!” Rick yells, throwing his arms up. “I took my ungrateful goddamn piece of shit grandson to Shoney’s, and because of it, he thinks I want to FUCK him!”

“Don’t act like I’m crazy, Rick!” Morty’s sweaty hands slip around the yoke. He wipes them on his pants. He dips lower, and mercifully, their house comes into view. “Y-y-you always do something for something in return, Rick! Don’t lie about it!”

“But why would your—your weird little horny brain come up with THAT, Morty?”

“I don’t know!” Morty yells back, and lands the ship with a hard thump. “I-I-I-I don’t—”

“Mmm,” Rick grunts, flinging his seatbelt aside and kicking the door open. “Wow. I don’t even know what to say. Get the fuck over yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Rick,” Morty says meekly. Rick slams the door.

-

Nobody’s home, so Morty goes to the living room to watch TV. He turns up the volume, half-hoping that Rick will hear it, join him, and things will be back to normal again. After three episodes of some show where four-legged humans eat grass, Morty gives up on waiting for him. He goes up to his room, figures Rick’s either cooled down or plotting his—or someone else’s—destruction. He shuts the door to his room and leans against it, closing his eyes and sliding down. Without the distraction of TV, their earlier conversation and the embarrassment of it comes barreling back into his mind. He hugs his knees and puts his face in the space between, wanting to cry.

Why did he say that? He hates to admit that Rick’s right; why was _that_ the example he came up with? If he’d just changed the subject, none of this would have really mattered. Sure, Rick would have still been pissed at Morty questioning him at all, but even he would have had to acknowledge that it wasn’t the craziest idea.

Morty shakes his head. It’s not fair. It wouldn’t have been that weird if the roles were different, if Rick had said it to him. It would have still been weird, but Rick would have also gotten on Morty’s case had he decided to say something about it. And anyway, it was only a matter of time until Rick would have made the same joke to Morty. And Morty wouldn’t have taken it so seriously, either. Probably.

“Just a joke,” he says out loud, quietly, as if to comfort himself.

But the breakfast in his stomach is still churning around, unsettled, maybe a result of all the somersaulting they did on the ship. Morty leans back against the door and hugs his stomach, feeling sick. After minutes of trying to swallow it down, he gets up and runs to the bathroom down the hall. He flips the toilet seat up in time for the rich, syrupy contents of his belly to come rushing out into the water.

It’s over quick, though the orange juice leaves a very bitter, very sour taste on his tongue. Morty spits and flushes, getting up. He washes his hands and rinses his mouth in the sink, then puts his palms on the counter to look at himself. There’s a speck of puke on his shirt and he sighs and takes it off, throwing it into the laundry hamper. If Rick’s heard him throwing up, there’s no indication of it. Not that he would do anything if he heard. He’s such a dick.

Morty goes back to his room, closing the door. He goes to grab a towel to shower, but then changes his mind and goes to his bed, taking off his pants and underwear. Nobody’s home, he figures, may as well jerk it first. He flips his laptop open and goes to his favorite porn site, clicking on a video of a red-headed girl with big tits. She reminds Morty of Jessica well enough. He reaches down to touch himself, laptop balanced on his stomach, and tries not to think about Rick.

He’s just getting into it when, as if on cue, just like every Saturday morning, he hears stomping up the stairs. The door flings open, Rick’s thin frame casting shadows on Morty’s bed. Morty slams the laptop shut and gathers the blankets over his quickly-deflating erection. Rick’s swaying, drooling, flask in hand.

"I've already seen all of it," Rick says, tucking the flask in his pocket. Morty doesn't know if he's referring to his Internet history or his body. He grabs Morty’s desk chair and sits on it backwards, like a cool guidance counselor in a lame movie. He sounds about twelve times as rough. "Listen, Mo _ough_ rty, I've—I was—I wanna ask you a question."

Morty pulls the blanket closer to himself.

Rick sighs and closes his eyes, crossing his arms over the back of the chair, leaning his chin on them. “I wanted to ask, _Morty_ , why you’d even think I'd want to touch your disgusting little body."

Morty flinches at how harsh he’s being. Even for Rick, even though Morty brought it up first, this cuts deep.

"Every time you've gotten naked in front of me, Morty, all those times, you ever see me pop a boner?"

Morty shakes his head, unable to speak. He knows he looks as shocked as he feels.

Rick nods. "So, again: why the fuck would I even consider it? You think I can't do better than your scrawny, pimply ass?"

"G-get the fuck out of my room, R-rick," Morty says, his voice shaky, unable to contain his stammering. "Y-you're the o-one i-in here right now."

"Y-y-y-y-y-you’re t-t-the o-o-one i-i-i-i-n here,” Rick mimics him cruelly. “I need you to know, Morty," he gets up, advancing towards Morty with such menace that Morty actually finds himself in the corner of his bed, naked and afraid, "that I would, never, not in a trillion lightyears—not in a trillion trips to Shoney’s," he brings up his finger to poke at Morty's shoulders and chest, punctuating each word in a different spot as Morty hits his hand away, "touch _this_. Okay? First of all, I’m—I don’t fuck kids, that’s one that’s, you know, pretty important, considering you’re calling me a sexual predator. Um, two, e _eegh_ ven if I did, I sure wouldn’t fuck _you_. There’s nothing sexy about you. I feel like throwing up every time your tiny pathetic dick appears in my peripheral vision." He makes like he’s going to lift the blanket, and Morty scrambles to hold it tighter. Rick has the gall to laugh.

Overwhelmed and so deeply hurt, Morty doesn’t know what to do. He pushes his face into the blanket. The tears keep forming and he keeps soaking them into it, terrified that Rick will see.

“Are you crying?” Rick asks. Morty should have known he’d have already noticed.

“N-no,” Morty says. He blinks into the blanket and looks up, thinking maybe Rick’s taken mercy on him. But Rick’s face is impassive. If anything, with his arms crossed as he stands over Morty, it’s hostile.

“You’re not supposed to _cry_ , Morty, you’re supposed to punch back,” Rick says, miming a boxer throwing punches. “You think that’s the worst you’ll hear in your lifetime? Your grandpa gets laid because he’s confident, Morty. Confidence is key.”

“Thanks,” Morty says dryly. “You… you sure know how to make someone feel c-confident, Rick.”

“You’re not _supposed_ to look for it in someone else, _Morty_ ,” Rick says, like this is all so obvious. “If you look for someone else to make you feel good, i-it all goes down the drain.” He makes a draining sound as he waves his arm. “Just like that.”

“Whatever, Rick.” Morty says. “I-I just don’t know why you needed to rip into me like that. It just doesn’t really fit with the whole supportive advice thing.”

“Go to Jerry for supportive advice—wait, don’t do that,” Rick says, scratching his head. “Just—just accept the fact that it’s a dead co _o_ _gh_ ld universe out there whether people think your body’s ugly or not.”

“I don’t think even Jerry would give advice that shitty,” Morty says, smoothing out the blanket underneath him. He doesn’t know why he’s being shy around Rick when Rick’s seen his body so many times. Probably because he just spent the last few moments tearing into it. Morty crosses his arms.

“Um, yes he would. Look,” Rick says, sitting down next to him on the bed, “Morty, come closer. Come sit next to Grandpa.”

Morty watches him cautiously as he crawls closer to the edge of the bed. “What, Rick?”

“Morty,” Rick looks at him. Morty looks back, frowning.

Rick closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, like he’s about to say something meaningful. Then, he lifts his leg and farts on Morty. Morty feels it against his bare thigh and yells in disgust, pushing Rick away. Rick’s cackling by this point, falling back on Morty’s bed as Morty pushes him towards the edge.

“Oh my GOD, Rick, i-it’s AWFUL!” Morty yells, covering his nose and mouth with one hand, still pushing Rick away with the other. “W-what the fuck is _WRONG_ with you?”

“Just a little—just a little humor, Morty, to lighten the mood!” Rick says, in between laughs, “just some boyish humor!” He rolls over to the side and Morty manages to kick him off the bed, Rick still laughing on the ground.

“You’re SUCH an asshole, Rick!” Morty says, pointing at him from the bed, “when you do shit like this, i-it really makes me think I’m in the right when I question you for being nice!”

“Oh my god, shut _up,_ Morty,” Rick says, when he’s calmed down enough to speak to him.  “Brunch was ages ago, maybe all this time in the house is making you… petty.”

“ _ME?_ ” Morty says, almost popping a blood vessel in his forehead. “ _You_ came in here to—” He holds his hands up and shakes his head, sitting back on the bed. “Get out, Rick. Just get out, okay? I’m not doing this.”

“Oh, _please_ don’t shut me out, Morty,” Rick says in a mockingly imploring voice, making a begging gesture with his hands, “I just don’t know what I’m going to do without your— _urgh_ —wit and intellect—”

Morty casts the blanket aside and flings himself off the bed, naked, fed up enough not to care. Rick’s face shifts into a grin as he’s forced up and pushed towards the door. He digs his heels in last second, Morty straining to push him out into the hall completely.

“Get _out_ ,” Morty grits through his teeth.

“No,” Rick says, putting a hand on either side of the doorframe. “ _Make_ me, Morty. Show me that you’re a man, show me there’s more in that scrawny little package than meets the eye.”

“I’ll kick you in the nuts,” Morty says, pushing as hard as he can, but Rick’s got leverage.

“I’ll fart again,” Rick threatens, “I’ll shit on the floor.”

“What do you _want?_ ” Morty yells, stepping back, his arms splayed wide. “All I’m asking for is for you to leave me alone, Rick!”

“Whoa,” Rick lets go of the door and takes Morty’s shoulder, bending down to look him in the eye. “Didn’t know interrupting your jerkoff session was gonna get you this upset, bro.”

Morty covers himself with his hands, glaring back at him. “Y-yeah, hey, you know what, Rick? Fuck you!”

“Fuck you too! Yeah!” Rick puts his middle finger up. He pats Morty’s shoulder and turns around, hands in his pockets as he makes his way down the stairs. He’s got the nerve to whistle, like he got what he came for.

Morty’s so angry he doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he lies down again. But everything that’s happened keeps running through his head, each lap incensing him further. None of it makes sense, no matter how he throws his mind at it. In every scenario it’s just Rick coming in, insulting Morty’s body—something he _knows_ Morty is insecure about—and treating it like it’s no big deal. Morty doesn’t know how he always ends up feeling like he’s on the losing side.

_You’re not supposed to cry, Morty, you’re supposed to punch back._

Morty glares at the floor. Fine. Hands shaking with fury, he slips on his clothes. Rick’s probably already back in the garage. He’s probably already forgotten about the horrible things he said. He wouldn’t expect Morty now, would he?

He descends the stairs and makes his way to through the kitchen. He throws the door open, but Rick’s not there. Morty didn’t hear the front door open or close, didn’t hear the garage door, so he must have already left Earth.

Morty walks up to the bench. There’s a small, shiny rectangular object on it, partially constructed and clearly very delicate. Thin veins of wires run across and through other cables and cords, all of it gathered around a tiny pink orb that sends pulses out and through the wires. It’s very pretty.

Morty does something he’s never had the balls to do before. He picks it up and smashes it on the ground. The object shatters with a small explosion that makes Morty leap back, reminding him of another reason why he doesn’t do this. He backs out of the room and runs upstairs, getting his keys and wallet. He doesn’t know where he’s gonna go, but something tells him he needs to get out.


	2. Chapter 2

He ends up going to the arcade at the mall. Video games always get his mind off of things, and the arcade reminds him of shit he did when he was a normal kid. He manages to get farther in Donkey Kong than he ever has, and starts cheering up a bit. After spending all his loose change, he treats himself to a hot dog and a smoothie at the food court, hungry since he’d emptied his stomach. It’s a bit lonely to see everyone else with someone else, or with friends, or their family, but it’s also sort of peaceful. He sits by himself at a table near one of the windows.

A family across from Morty shares a few boxes of Chinese food. The dad’s teaching his son to use chopsticks, picking up a piece of chicken and popping it into his mouth. The kid’s getting frustrated, but manages to pick up a piece and it actually makes the journey to his mouth. They high five, the mom laughing.

Morty rests his chin in this hand, resentful of this convenient display of familial affection and good parenting. Jerry doesn’t even know how to use chopsticks. Rick knows how to use hundreds of different utensils, but he refuses to ever sit down and teach Morty. He just laughs at Morty when he gets food in his lap.

His hot dog is pretty good, at least. Morty wishes he’d gotten fries with it.

He walks around afterwards, sipping his smoothie, slowing down and straining out the corners of his eyes to look at the models in the lingerie stores. He takes the bus back home, and it’s evening when he gets there, Mom’s car in the driveway. He hears the TV when he walks inside, but the light is off in the living room.

When he gets closer, he sees Mom passed out on the couch. There’s a candy bar wrapper and an empty bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of her. She’s on her stomach, face turned towards the TV, still in her scrubs.  The only indicator that she's breathing is the rise and fall of her body. That, and how often she does this. Even then, Morty still feels the need to check, brushing her hair off her cheek to make sure. Mom grunts and turns her head to face the other way, leaving a puddle of drool on the cushion. Morty turns off the TV and puts a throw blanket over her.

He goes to the kitchen to grab a coke. The lights are off, and Summer’s probably out with her friends. She’s lucky, Morty thinks sourly, opening the fridge and reaching inside. When Rick grabs his arm, Morty yelps, nearly hitting his head on the freezer door.

“J-jeez, Rick! Why’d you have to do that?” Morty tries to shake his arm out of Rick’s grip, but Rick doesn’t let him. He’s got a variant of the hostile, cold expression from before on his face, the fridge light casting shadows under the deep wrinkles under his eyes and around his mouth.

“You did it now, Morty,” Rick says, dragging him towards the garage. “You’re in big trouble.”

“Oh shit,” Morty says, remembering. “A-aw jeez, Rick, it was—”

“Oh I know _exactly_ what it was, Morty,” Rick says, closing the door behind Morty. The object still lays there, shattered, the floor singed from the explosion. Rick waves his hand at it. “I was almost done with that, Morty. This was a rebel group’s only hope for sustainable energy. Now a million more of them are gonna die before I can build another one. You—you know how long an hour is in their world? _Years_ , Morty. You’re lucky I’m not a bleeding-heart liberal.”

“W-whose world, Rick?” Morty asks, putting his hands to his face. “O-oh shit…”

“Like it matters, Morty. You destroyed something far more complicated and delicate than your feeble little brain, _as usual_ , congratulations.” Rick makes a sarcastic gesture. “Really—really got back at me with your antics. That's the important thing. I'd threaten you not to touch my stuff again but you probably feel like— _eerrughp_ —total shit right now.”

He's right. Now the hot dog smoothie is churning in Morty’s stomach, along with a heightening sense of anger. It’s not fair, he remembers. It’s not fair.

“Yeah, well…” Morty crosses his arms, partly to keep his food down, “y-you can’t just blame me like that, Rick. You said some really fucked up things!”

“Don’t I always?” Rick says, handing him a broom. “Clean it up.”

Morty hits the broom out of his hand. It clatters onto the hard ground.

Rick looks taken aback for a moment. Then, he frowns. “Wow. Real… real uh, _mature_. What, Morty, you think you’re so innocent? You forget about what you said to me after I took you out to brunch? O-out of the kindness of my own heart?”

“ _What?_ You can’t keep holding that against me a-and turn around and call me petty, Rick!” Morty says, pointing at him. “I apologized for it and you didn’t! All of this is _your_ fault!”

“How is it my fault when you threw my project on the floor, Morty? I know you threw it, Morty. I’m a goddamn scientist.” Rick kicks the broom towards him.

Morty kicks it back. “Because I never would have done it if you didn't say those things!”

Rick groans in frustration. “Are we—we’re really doing this, aren't we? Oh my god, Jesus, Morty, just, I could be _way_ more of a dick about this,” he bends down and picks up the broom, this time walking up to Morty and shoving it into his chest, “just clean up. YOUR. Mess.”

Morty shoves it back, pushing Rick as hard as he can. Without a doorframe to hold onto, Rick slips, his back slamming into the workbench, all the instruments on top of it rattling dangerously. He grunts in pain. Morty feels bad for a second but Rick’s already recovered. There’s fire in his eyes. He all but snarls before pushing off the bench and launching himself on Morty, the two of them toppling into the floor. Morty’s back and head hit the floor and it all really hurts, but he's so fed up with Rick’s bullshit that he barely registers it. He throws his hands around while Rick tries to pin him down, managing to slam a stray fist hard against one of Rick’s eyes.

“Ah, _fuck!_ ” Rick yells, genuine surprise and pain in his voice.

Morty’s satisfied with that, until Rick swings down and his own right eye goes dark with stars. Rick laughs at him and Morty’s furious beyond belief. He flails, trying to punch his face again, or his chest, his arms, just somewhere, anywhere. Rick blocks his hands and eventually manages to gather his arms and pin them under his body. They're face to face, chest to chest, Rick on top of him, Rick’s knees crunching the shattered pieces of his invention, Morty’s shoes kicking them aside.

“I'm almost proud of you, Mmmmorty,” Rick says, dangerously quiet, leering at him even with one still-swelling eye. He bares his yellowed teeth and Morty wrinkles his nose at the smell of alcohol and god-knows-what on his breath. He struggles but Rick holds his arms down. “That was a lucky hit and weak as fuck, yeah, but the fact that you had the balls to do it…” he burps in Morty’s face and laughs again, like a ten year old kid. “It’s like you’re finally learning!”

Morty bucks against Rick’s body, shaking his head, kicking his legs. He doesn't know how someone so skinny can be so heavy, even with the height Rick’s got on him. Rick’s chest, it’s… it’s unexpectedly warm and broad when it’s pressed this close against him. He can feel Rick’s ribs digging into his belly as he tries to get free, before he finally goes limp and turns his face to the side. He stares hard at Rick’s shelf full of half-finished work to stop from crying.

“You gonna cry?” Rick asks, close to his ear. He’s always attuned to it, somehow so perceptive and yet so dismissive. Morty screws his eyes shut and doesn't answer. “Jesus, Morty, don't you think you're overreacting a little? I mean, just saying, you _did_ break my priceless source of energy or whatever.”

Morty’s eye throbs, and the fight’s left him. “F… fine.”

Rick ruffles his hair and gets up, brushing bits and pieces of his invention off of his knees. “What a way to resolve conflict, Morty. Just like cavemen. Look at us— _eurgh_ —go, huh?”

Any conflict is far from resolved, but Morty’s tired, so tired. He gets up, his back bruised and protesting, and retrieves the broom, which has fallen next to the tool bench. Rick turns around and starts taking materials out of the fridge and various boxes, ignoring Morty as he cleans up behind him. Morty sweeps the remaining shards into a box and places it next to the trash, leaning the broom on the wall.

When Morty closes the door to the garage behind him, he's surprised to see the kitchen light is on. There’s a pot of water on the stove and a box of pasta next to it. Mom’s sitting at the bar, holding her head.

“Hey Mom,” Morty says.

“Hi sweetie,” Mom replies, distracted. She’s looking down at her phone, reading something, leaning her head on her hand. “I’m making some pasta, I’m so sorry I missed dinner again. Just… work keeps me tired, and I can’t really do much about it…”

“That’s okay, Mom,” Morty says. He looks at the pot and realizes the stove isn’t even on. He walks over like he’s checking the water, and turns on the stove as quietly as he can. “I ate something at the mall.”

“Oh, you went to the mall? You should have told me, I would have—” Mom glances up and her hand drops from her face, “—Morty! What on earth!”

“O-o-oh,” Morty turns away from her, trying to be casual and just staring at the fridge as a result, “yeah, you know, it’s nothing, j-just an accident.”

“What, you fell down some stairs?” He hears Mom walking up behind him. She puts her hands on his shoulder and turns him back around, taking his face in her hands. She peers into his eyes, then squints. “Daaad!”

“I’m gonna go upstairs,” Morty says, but Mom’s hands on his face have found a vice-like grip. He knows what’s coming.

After a minute, the kitchen door opens and Rick sticks his head out.

“You, too?” Mom asks, her eyes widening. “What the hell?”

“Shit,” Rick says, his hand coming up to his eye, “forgot. Look, Beth. It’s not a big deal. You see, your son—”

“Dad!” Mom says, looking between Morty and Rick’s faces. She looks upset, even a little upset at Rick. “After you _promised_ me!”

“Oh boy,” Rick groans. Mom lets go of Morty’s face and Morty looks over at Rick, who’s staring at him. “Cat’s out of the— _erghp—_ bag.”

“W-what are you talking about?” Morty asks.

“I’m really disappointed, Dad,” Mom says, though her voice is a bit more pleading than disappointed. “I was actually looking forward to asking you about brunch.”

Morty’s bewildered. Did she want to go with them?

“We _did_ go to brunch,” Rick glares at Morty, “tell your mother.”

Mom looks at him expectantly. Morty’s mouth droops.

“Y-you asked Rick to take me out to brunch?"

“Bobby Goren over here,” Rick mutters, walking into the kitchen. “Beth, sweetie _,_ like I said, I _did_ take your son to Shoney’s, we got there at a great time, everything was fine. But he got a liiittle upset.”

Morty’s stomach drops, thinking Rick’s going to mention what he said. There’s no doubt that Mom, as much as she loves Morty, would take his side in this. Though he doesn’t know how she’d handle him telling her about Rick leaping on him like a caged animal.

“So you hit him?” Mom asks. “Dad, he’s a _minor_. What are you doing? You could get in serious trouble!”

Of course. Morty wants to ball his hands into fists, but he puts them into his pockets instead. Of course it’s about _Rick’s_ safety.

“Beth, I've escaped the intergalactic military,” Rick says, waving his hand. “No, no, no. This,” he gestures between his own eye and Morty’s, “Morty was upset and, he’d wanted to practice driving, and I’d already said yes, so we just rammed into a telephone pole ‘cause—’cause he was being an idiot. No big deal. Hit our heads on the dash, ship wasn’t damaged, beta titanium alloy, et cetera, he’ll get there with some more practice, right?”

“ _What?_ ” Mom’s eyes can’t get any wider without turning inside out at this point, “You were in an _accident_?” She turns back to Morty, taking his face again, checking for other bruises. “Are you okay, honey? Maybe we should take you to get checked out—both of you.”

Morty gives her a small smile, despite prickling inside at being called a bad driver. He does pretty well for all Rick puts him through. “Yeah, I-I’m okay, Mom. Rick checked me out already. He had a weird... ornament on the dash and it, you know, we were jerked forward,” he steps back and does the motion, miming holding the yoke. Rick’s black eye _is_ on the left side of his face. He can’t believe the lengths they’re going to just to lie. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. “Um, like that.”

“A weird ornament on the dash,” Mom repeats, mouth pulling with skepticism.

Rick shrugs. “Newton’s cradle. Hit him and then it hit me.”

Mom stares at his face. Morty starts to sweat. She’s a _doctor_ , of course she’s going to notice how fresh the bruise is. He looks away, unable to bear it. But it’s either been a long time since Mom’s looked at bruises, or worse, it’s something she chooses to believe because she wants to so bad, because she sighs and pulls Morty close again.

“Why were you so upset?” Mom asks, petting his head, most likely feeling for lumps. Morty winces when she finds one in the back of his skull, from when Rick had jumped on him. She tsks and draws back to open the freezer, getting some ice.

“Uh yeah, you know… my waffles were bad,” Morty says, glancing at Rick, who looks bored. “Like, really bad. I-I tried to talk to the waitress, but she was a—a real jerk.”

“That’s bullshit,” Mom says, shaking her head. She wraps ice in a towel and gently puts it to his eye. “Just switch every now and then, between your head and your eye.” She sweeps Morty’s hair back from his forehead and kisses it, hugging him tight. “I’m so glad you’re okay. Don’t let these types of things get to you, Morty, especially when Dad lets you drive. Next time we go to Shoney’s, let’s ask for the manager. Right, Dad? You remember what she looks like, I’m sure.”

“You got it, baby,” Rick shoots her a couple finger guns. “I’m going back to work, if this is over.” He closes the door to the garage.

Mom looks after him for a moment before turning around and looking at the pot, which has been boiling for the last few minutes. “Oh! Oh, god damnit.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Morty says quietly.

“About what?” Mom lowers the heat and empties a box of Penne into the pot. “Sweetie, it was an accident, right?”

“Yeah… yeah,” Morty says, nodding. “Um, I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

“Night,” Mom says. Morty hears the cabinet open once he leaves the kitchen, hears a cork pop and the sound of liquid pouring into a glass as he makes his way to the stairs. He bites both his lips. He’s not so sure he can blame everything on Rick right now.

His room is dark and messy from earlier, Morty’s desk chair still next to his bed. Morty closes the door and leans against it again, sliding down to the floor until his back is on it, even though it hurts his head.

So he knows, now. He knows for sure that Rick didn’t have anything else in mind when he took him out to breakfast. Anything besides making Mom happy, anyway. It's hard to think of too many ulterior motives for that, now that Dad's gone. Morty groans, pushing the dish towel against his eye until it hurts.

He always tells himself to stand up to Rick, to not get psyched out. To have the confidence Rick tells him to have while he tears into his ego like a lion going in for the kill. He’s an emotional vampire, and that’s true whether he wants to stick seeds or orbs or micro-colonies up Morty’s ass or not.

He crawls into bed again, stripped down to his underwear, and reaches for his laptop in a last attempt to feel some sort of good. His browser tab’s already open to a video, some exhibitionists fucking in a park, an older man and a petite girl. Her chest is almost as small and skinny as Morty’s, but with tits. Morty slips his hand under the elastic of his briefs again, stroking himself, reaching over behind his balls and cupping them, pressing on them with his palm. The man and woman are sliding against each other on the grass, chest to chest, just like how Rick and he were not long ago. He starts getting harder, biting his bottom lip as he watches them fuck, stroking the head of his dick with his thumb. Did the girl feel like how Morty felt, having that weight on her?

Morty slams the laptop closed with the realization of what he just thought, breathing hard. His heart is rushing blood in his ears, a whooshing noise that pulses as he stares up at the ceiling. Worst thing is, he’s still hard. No—the worst thing is, he’s horny enough not to care.

He pushes his laptop off his stomach and to the side, shimmying off his underwear and kicking it to the foot of his bed. His heart leaps for a second to Rick walking in on him like this. The blanket’s already on the edge of the bed from where Morty kicked it off earlier, so there’s no way he could cover himself fast enough. How disgusted would Rick be? Morty stares at the desk chair, as if Rick’s sitting on it the way he did when he ranted about how much he hated Morty’s body with vicious zeal.

He shuts his eyes tight and imagines it: Rick getting up from the chair and advancing towards him, like he did earlier. It’s almost like a sort of test to see if his dick responds, and to Morty’s dismay, it does. Morty opens his eyes a sliver and sees the fuzzy outline of it in the dark, straight and stiff. He grabs his pillow and hugs it to his chest, grinding against it and trying to imitate the weight, but it’s not heavy enough. Nor are there any ribs inside it to press into him. He sits up and gets on his stomach over the pillow, moving his hips to get some friction on it. He pushes his face into it, hand going in between to stroke himself, using his precum for slickness. Bit by bit, he continues to open himself up to all the sick, twisted and repressed thoughts surging straight to his cock.

He thinks of Rick asking Morty to get closer, until Morty is pressed next to him. He can’t imagine Rick’s expression, but he knows Rick doesn’t fart this time. Instead, slowly, carefully, Rick makes his way under him. Morty drools onto his bed sheets as he pushes his hips down and circles them into the soft down. It’s not a great substitute, a pillow for a bony man like Rick, but Morty doesn’t know what else to use. Maybe a textbook, or his laptop.

Morty grunts in frustration and pushes the pillow aside. He puts head on the bed and starts to jerk himself off faster, with both hands, ass facing the door. He _wishes_ Rick would walk in now, smug and proud at having thrown Mom off the scent, only to be confronted with this. He knows _that_ would surprise him, that this _has_ to surprise him. Then again, Morty thinks with a sudden, feverish sadness, with all of Rick’s experience, who’s to say it would?

When he cums, he feels like crying again, just for a second. He wipes his hands on his sheets and puts his laptop under his bed. The pillow cover is stained with precum and Morty slips it off and drops it on top of his pants. He buries his face in the bare, sweat-stained cotton and down, and tries to sleep before shame and regret catch up to him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

On Sunday, Morty wakes up late enough that the sun’s shining through his window and directly into his room. He lifts his head off his pillow, mouth wet with drool, then gets on all fours, blinking blearily. After a moment’s struggle, he lays back down and rolls over, staring at the ceiling, at the tits on the poster on his wall. He’s memorized every wrinkle on that poster, every printed inch.

The weight of sleep is heavier on his eyelids than usual, and it’s pleasurable to wallow in it, to close his eyes and stretch out. His hand drifts lazily to his dick, still hard from sleep. He rubs himself, feeling good. It’s when he turns his face into the pillow that he realizes it’s bare, coverless, and the memories of last night flood in to smack him in the face. Morty lets go of his dick like he’s been shocked. It bobs insistently, undeterred.

He sits up, heart beating hard, and looks at his clock. Past noon. He groans, kicking his feet off the bed and getting up, unable to shake the sensation of sweat and dirt on his body. He never did get to shower yesterday.

He peeks in Mom’s room as he makes his way down the hall. She’s still asleep in bed. Morty closes her door quietly after checking that she is, in fact, asleep, and not dead.

Once he’s under the hot spray, he thinks about jerking off again. His cock still stands at attention, morning wood that hasn’t faded, that doesn’t seem like it will.

He rubs one out using Mom’s conditioner real quick, trying his best not to think about Rick, anything but Rick. But at the last moment, right before he cums, he can’t help it; he lets his thoughts run wild to see what they bring him. They bring him Rick, _of course_ , standing behind Morty, jerking off his cock as he pulls Morty’s hips back against him with his other hand. He doesn’t imagine Rick kissing him, but he definitely thinks about Rick biting his shoulder as he shoots cum on the bathroom wall, almost choking from the water when he opens his mouth to moan. He coughs, leaning against the tiles to compose himself.

 _Holy shit,_ he thinks, as he squirts some some body wash into his hand to wash the cum off the wall, _holy shit._

-

There’s nobody downstairs and he’s so immensely grateful for it. Mom’s pasta from last night sits on the stove. Morty sighs and walks up to it, scraping the dried bits aside to scoop some into a bowl. He puts it into the microwave and sets the time, resting his elbows on the counter as he watches it turn.

The door to the garage opens, and Morty knows it’s Rick. He squeezes his eyes in frustration, letting go only when his bruised eye protests, still facing the microwave. Just having Rick in the same room changes the air, gives Morty less room to breathe.

“All that radiation’s gonna melt your brain,” Rick says. His voice behind Morty sends a small bolt of electricity up his spine. He’s probably looking at what Morty’s making, because he loses interest quickly and goes to the fridge. Morty lets go of a breath he didn't know he was holding.

“Even I know that’s not true,” Morty says, trying to keep his voice steady.

“ _Wow_ , Morty, surprised me there, you little genius,” Rick says with false sincerity, opening the fridge door. He grabs some milk, shaking it in the container as he takes a glass and pours it halfway to the top. “Hey, hey—check this out.”

He pours liquid from a flask into the glass and the milk bubbles and turns into a blue that fades from light to dark, a thick vapor rising from it. It’s still going as Rick slides it down the counter towards him.

Morty scrunches his nose. “What is that, Rick?”

“Taste it. You’ll see.”

“I-I don’t know,” Morty says, staring at it.

Rick rolls his eyes. “Morty, I know you think I’m either going to kill you or diddle you, but it’s not worth my time to—”

“Aw, jeez _, Rick,_ just let it go!”

“Taste it!” Rick says, pointing at it.

Morty picks up the glass. The vapor has dissipated, but the milk’s still a dark blue color. He takes a cautious sip, and his mouth fills with the taste of chocolate. It's unbelievably smooth and creamy, the texture like hot fudge, but cool and not overly sweet. Morty takes a few more sips before he puts the glass down.

“I-it’s pretty good.”

Rick walks up to him and takes the glass out of his hand. He tips it back and drinks the rest of it, Morty mentally punching himself in the stomach for looking to see if Rick’s lips touch the same place his own did.

“Something I'm working on,” Rick says, licking his lips. “Once I market this shit I'll put Nesquik and Ovaltine out of business in one fell swoop, boyee!”

“It doesn't look like chocolate milk,” Morty says, wiping his own lips on the back of his hand, “you know? M-maybe it could be brown.”

Rick rolls his eyes. “Okay, Morty. Thanks for the cutting-edge idea _._ It's a clear mix, I can make it any color I want. I just put that in to counteract the flavor.”

Morty gets his food out of the microwave, then pauses. “O-of what?”

“Poison! I lied!” Rick says, waving his hands dramatically. “I'm killing you! Now c’mere and take your pants off!”

“That’s not funny, Rick,” Morty says, as his dick twitches at the thought. He goes to the table and sits, facing away from Rick. What the hell happened to him between yesterday and today?

“It hides your body heat,” Rick says, sliding into a seat across from Morty, “traps it aaall inside of you.”

“Sooo,” Morty says, moving his pasta around with his fork. It's so bland. “Why?”

“We’re infiltrating, baby! Grandpa wants a shiny Galaxian crystal!” Rick says, raising his hand for a high five. When Morty ignores him, he smears it down the side of Morty's face. Morty hits it away.

“What’s a Galaxian crystal?”

“Like a Kalaxian crystal, but modified by the Glaxons, Morty.” Rick says, pulling out his flask and drinking deep. “Way more potent. Wayyyy more valuable. There’s only one successful batch ever produced, and it’s at the treasury. It’s like—it’s like if blue meth was a national treasure. Crazy, right? Assuming politicians don’t do uppers.” He laughs.

“Sounds like we should just leave it alone, Rick.”

Rick scoffs. “Well, I say it sounds like you've got fi _ghh_ ve minutes to prepare yourself for the feeling of cold balls against your thighs, _Morty._ And to finish eating, I'm bored and I wanna leave now.”

Morty stuffs his mouth with pasta to avoid arguing. This is more like the day to day he’s used to, Rick drugging him and dragging him, or vice versa. Slowly, as he finishes up, something cool begins to flow through his fingertips, pooling there like he’s dipping his hands in cold water. Rick puts his hands behind his head and watches him, like he’s reading Morty’s thoughts for his own entertainment. Thinking that makes Morty shiver, and he stares at his bowl until he’s done.

In the garage, Rick holds out what looks like a small black diving suit, shaking for Morty to take it. “Soundproof, laser-proof, et cetera. Might camouflage too, I don't remember, I-I made it like six months ago.”

Morty holds it out in front of him. It looks tiny. “Are you sure this is in my size, Rick?”

“Duuuh, I made it for you, _Morty.”_ Rick starts unbuckling his belt and slides off his pants, then kicks them off.

There’s something new to Morty about Rick’s pale legs, how slender they are. Rick takes off his sweater; Morty’s always noticed he’s in better shape than most men his age. Morty can see where his hips protrude, where the lines form a V. It’s not like his grandfather’s _hot_ , but he’s tall, and he figures most people are attracted to him for his… well, something. Maybe it’s his fucked up god-ness.

Rick shucks his underwear off and kicks it under the shelf, then gives Morty a weird look. “What?”

“N-nothing,” Morty says, clutching the suit close like it’s him who’s undressed.

Rick squints at him, then puts his leg into the suit. “So stop standing there and _—urghp—_ get ready.”

Morty turns around to undress. He’s definitely thankful for that cooling drink now. He takes off his clothes quickly, hurrying to change. It feels so awkward in the garage, the only sound other than clothes rustling a buzz coming from the fluorescent lights above them.

He looks down at himself once he’s in the suit. “I look like a lollipop.”

Rick snorts with genuine mirth. Morty’s heart skips a beat. Man, is he getting worse by the second. “Yeah, caught in an oil spill.”

“Ha ha, y-yeah.”

“Alright!” Rick shoots open a portal in the garage door. “Party starts now at the Glaxon-5 treasury, biiitch!”

Morty follows Rick through and they’re on the roof of a large building in an urban area. The sky’s pink and the clouds are green, and it makes Morty think of watermelon candy. He peeks over the edge and sees traffic down below.

“Look, Rick, everyone’s driving cars—on the ground!”

“Ooh, nice throwback,” Rick says, walking up to each vent and patting around it, checking for something. “Morty, look for a small blue piece of tape, I had a guy on the inside mark it.”

Morty obliges. The breadth of the roof is huge, and working together, they manage to find the one fan that’s been turned off. Rick lifts the grate, handing it to Morty, who struggles to put it down quietly. Rick throws a leg over the edge before turning to Morty.

“Long heist speeches are overrated, so I’ll make this quick,” Rick says. “Don’t talk to me, stick close, and when I tell you to, you’re gonna crawl through a smaller vent to get into the room where the crystal is. Once you’re in the smaller vent, I need you to reach in with your little baby hands and grab the crystal. _Capiche?”_

Morty nods, feeling a little bitter about the last part.

Rick goes to slide down, pauses, and adds, “Just so you know, Morty—those people down there, in the cars? They all have little offices and shit, they’re—they’re in mobile offices, Morty. I-I don’t know where they’re going, but they’re going slowly, a-and speed isn't the priority. I just wa _Aagh_ nted to clarify that it’s not the same.” He slides down the vent.

“Whatever,” Morty says, climbing in after him.

They gingerly make their way down. Several intersections later, Morty sees a light at the end. Rick crawls up to it, looks out, and motions for Morty to come closer. There's an office on the other side of the grate—it’s empty. Rick takes a small tube of what looks like chapstick from his pocket, then wipes it around the edges of the grate. It sizzles and falls back in Rick’s hands. He hands it to Morty then crawls inside, jumping down.

Morty looks over the edge and it’s pretty high up. He hesitates. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s broken his legs on a stealth job. Rick silently urges him on, his hand motions getting quicker as he runs out of patience. He finally holds his arms out, and Morty jumps. Rick catches him, then swings him down. Morty wants to linger in his grip, holding onto Rick’s shoulders, but Rick lets him go quickly, and he steps back.

They’re in the hallway, all gaudy green floor and pink ceiling, when they hear clicking on the linoleum. Morty sees a guard on patrol; a large peach-grey creature with thin, spiky insectoid legs. Rick shoves himself and Morty in the nearest corner, turning Morty’s head to the wall and pressing flat against him. Morty can't see much, but when he looks down he doesn't see their legs. The camouflage is working after all.

Morty can feel Rick, his cool breath fanning out over Morty’s head and his cool stomach pushing in and out over Morty’s shoulders. Morty closes his eyes. This is exactly what he's been inexplicably thinking so hard about: Rick’s body against his own. It’s just their suits and nothing else between them, and it’s a terrible situation, and Morty doesn’t know whether to pretend he’s somewhere else or push back, just a little. Instead, he curls his fingers into the wall until they hurt. He feels disgusting, especially when Rick straightens and flattens up against Morty—closer than Morty thought was possible—after the guard stops right behind them. Morty doesn’t dare glance up. He holds his breath, concentrating on a spot of dirt in the wall while the guard clicks around in circles. It works, but barely. Morty can feel the low hang, the thick bulge of Rick’s dick pressing into his back. It feels cool, too. Once the skittering gets quieter, Rick steps back and pulls Morty’s arm for him to follow. If he’s noticed anything weird about Morty, Morty’s grateful he hasn’t mentioned it.

The rest of it goes without much incident. Not more than usual, anyway. Morty squeezes into the vent, then its smaller counterpart, grabs the Galaxian crystal, and Rick ends up blowing up the entire treasury afterwards, choking the gummy candy-pink sky with thick black smoke.

“Why, Rick?” Morty yells at him as they run down the alley, Morty clutching the crystal close, trying not to drop it. “What was the point of all that espion—espionage?”

Rick shoots a portal into a brick wall and drags Morty through it. Morty loses his balance once they’re back in the garage, the floor speeding up to meet him as he tries to take the brunt of the impact. Rick catches him with a firm hand on his shoulder and pulls him back, snatching the crystal away while spitting curses at him. Morty sighs with relief.

“It’s obvious, Morty,” Rick cradles the crystal in his hands, literally drooling over it, “if we just stole it, they’d be looking for it.” He grins at Morty as he places it on a clean and empty workbench, clearly prepped beforehand. “I’m efficie _ghh_ nt.”

“If that’s what you wanna call it, Rick,” Morty says, exhausted. He walks to the washer, where he left his clothes, and begins to change, facing away from Rick again. A thought occurs to him as he peels off his suit, and he pauses, turning around. “W-what about your guy on the inside?”

Rick’s looking around the garage, scratching his head. He’s already stripped off the suit, and Morty figures he’s looking for his underwear. “Oh… I dunno.” He shrugs. “Hope he chose to work from his car today.”

“That’s—that’s horrible, Rick!” Morty puts his hands on his hips. “I hope the crystal was worth it!”

Rick sneers at him. “It _was,_ Morty, though I don’t know why you’re getting all high and mighty about it, considering you’ve got the blood of millions on your hands.” He doesn’t see Morty wince at that as he gives up and just slides his pants up. He walks over to the bench with the crystal and takes a hammer, bringing it down, fast. Morty throws his arms up over his face at the piercing crack of noise that follows, waiting for shards to come flying into his skin. But nothing else happens, and when he lowers his arms and opens his eyes, he sees all of it neatly piled up under the hammer, a delighted look on Rick’s face.

“W-w-what are you gonna do with that, Rick?” Morty asks, a last-ditch attempt to salvage some meaning out of it.

Rick laughs. “Oh ho ho, come on, _Morty_. Think about it. I only steal shit for two reasons.”

Morty frowns and looks down at the rest of his suit, twisting the part still hanging off in his fists. “Money and… power?”

“Money and getting high, bitch!” Rick tosses the hammer aside and grabs a test tube, scooping some of the crushed crystal into it. He places it on a rack and starts mixing other chemicals on his table. Morty thinks distantly about how he never wears safety equipment. “Just gonna, ha ha, _kick it up a notch_. Remember that, Morty? _Bam!_ I-it’s not like those Glaxon-5 fuckers can do any better than me. Want some?”

“ _No!_ ” Morty says, his voice breaking with the intensity of it.

Rick laughs. “Like you could handle it. Don’t worry, I’m not going to cook _all_ of it,” he says, adding in a yellow syrup that pops and crackles,  “I’m gonna sell half of it. Shit, a quarter of it would pay for your college, Morty. So— _urghp_ —don’t piss me off.”

Morty holds his head, feeling like he’s losing his grip. “I-I’m not a part of this! This shit is probably going to—going to kill you!”

Rick pauses from peering into the tube to roll his eyes at Morty. “Oh please. Y-you underestimate my tolerance. Let's—let’s watch a movie first, I wanna try this out. You can have the satisfaction of knowing you were right if I die on the couch. Deal?”

Morty wants to say no, to just go up to his room and read comics or masturbate, just something to get away from this. He’s not sure if Rick would even let him, but there’s another part of him, one he’s still desperately trying to push down, that wants to stay.

He stares down at his fists, defeated. “O-okay.”

Rick’s bent over the table now, concentrating on something. Morty can count the vertebrae down his back, see where they disappear under his unbuckled belt. He knows what it looks like underneath that, and it used to gross him out to see it. It definitely doesn’t anymore, not at this point. Not when he’s thinking about Rick in the shower.

“I’ll be done in a second,” Rick says, waving him away. “Go—go find something, I’ll join you in a second.”

Morty slips out the rest of his suit and changes as quickly as he can, shutting the door behind him. He walks through the kitchen to the living room, sitting down on the end of the couch and taking the remote. Out of all the thousands, millions of channels, nothing seems interesting enough to pull Morty’s mind away from the impending anxiety of Rick, _high_ Rick at that, being close to him. He flips through several intergalactic versions of Lifetime movies, each one worse and more absurd than the last. He jumps when Rick slides down next to him, closer than Morty expected. He's dressed, at least.

Rick leans over him and grabs the remote. The whites of his eyes are the color of the highlighter Morty uses on his History textbook. He starts flipping through channels faster than Morty can decipher, before stopping on _The Gazorpazorpfield Movie 2,_ and conveniently during the opening credits. It starts out with Gazorpazorpfield in a castle, served lasagna by naked slaves. Gazorpazorpfield hates it, and he begins to devour them.

“Ohhhh shit,” Rick says, leaning back on the couch with his arms on either side. “Gazorpazorpfield’s never captiva _ghh_ ted me like this. This might be Tim Hill’s best—his best work, Morty.”

Morty wonders why Rick didn’t just smoke some weed, leaning his cheek on his hand. The movie’s absolute garbage and centers around several C-list celebrity cameos, but Rick keeps laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen. Each time he starts crowing about the context clues of some scene, he grabs Morty’s shoulder or hits his arm or his knee, jostling him. Morty tries to push him off but the more he struggles the more Rick pushes back against him, until Morty’s practically leaning over the edge of the couch. Rick’s posture changes as his high seems to shift, and he lays loose on the couch, leaning his head on Morty’s shoulder. Morty doesn’t think it’s on purpose, that Rick is just tired of holding his own head up.

Slowly but surely, heat begins to seep outwards from Morty’s innards as Rick’s cooling mixture wears off. It spreads through his arms to his fingers, from his chest to his head, from his stomach to his dick, where it pools with intensity—to Morty’s horror—before it trickles down to his legs and to his toes.

He grabs a throw pillow to put in his lap and Rick takes that as an invitation to immediately drop his head on it. He rubs his cheek into it as he tries to get more comfortable. Morty gets more and more uncomfortable as a result.

“Rick,” Morty tries, “I-I don't feel so good.”

Rick turns to look up at him. “What's wrong, buddy?”

“My—my stomach hurts. I think I should go upstairs,” Morty says. He’s already planning how to maneuver the throw pillow on his way up. The last thing he needs is Rick throwing more verbal knives into his gut. “Maybe it was that blue milk.”

Rick sits up, suddenly, and grabs his wrist, pulling him close. “No, Morty. You can’t go. Y-y-you can’t leave me here because I’ll trip balls if I’m alone, I need—” he starts patting Morty’s hand, then his arms, “yeah, I need this. Human contact. I feel connected. To _you_.”

Morty tries to pull his arm free. “Okay, I-I-I don’t really know—”

Rick lets go of his wrist to clutch his face, staring deep into Morty’s eyes. Morty averts them quickly, holding onto his pillow for dear life.

“You’ve—you’ve been acting weird, Morty,” Rick says, tilting his head so he’s still in Morty’s peripheral vision. “Looking at me all weird, like you really don’t wanna be around me. More than u _uUu_ sual. Is it… is it because of what I said, Morty? About your scrawny pimply body?”

Morty’s stunned that he even remembers it. “No, Rick, I-I’m really fine, okay? You know, o-other than my stomach.”

Rick’s looming over him, still holding his face, jagged nails digging a little into Morty’s skin. And when Morty dares to glance up, Rick’s eyes are half-lidded—one of them, anyway. The other’s still a little swollen from their fight; Morty’s sure his eye doesn’t look much different.

It all seems inviting, even though Rick is high, or maybe because he is high, or maybe because he’s _never_ sober anyway. Or maybe it’s just something Morty mistakes for inviting, but it’s enough to for him to lean in and kiss Rick.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

It’s something he can never take back, kissing his grandfather like this. His lips push against Rick’s slack mouth, before Rick moves his lips and Morty’s dick throbs, aches with the accumulated want. Rick’s thumb slides across Morty’s cheek and Morty leans up into the kiss, trying to get as much as he can before he has to deal with the consequences.

A few seconds is all Rick gives him before he shoves Morty down into the corner of the couch, then sits back, his hands on his own head now.

A hot, vibrating line of embarrassment runs up the back of Morty’s head and back down his neck. His heart is going to crack a rib with how hard it’s hammering. It’s going to pop out of his chest and bounce wetly across the carpet.

“R-rick,” Morty starts, “I...I...”

“Wow!” Rick says, before he laughs, and keeps laughing, his voice drowning out the stupid music coming from the TV, _“Wow!_ This whole fucking time—it was _you!_ I knew it!” he scrubs the butts of his palms up his temples. “Holy shit, this is… _validating.”_

Morty can’t stop his nose from running, the tears from lining his eyes and spilling over. He covers his face with his arm and gets up from the couch, but Rick catches his other arm and yanks Morty back down, Morty crying out.

“No way,” Rick says, bringing Morty close enough that his drool drips on Morty’s chin, “no _way_ do you get to run away from this. Not after putting me through this shit.”

“W-w-w-w-what sh-sh-shit?” Morty sobs, tears running full force down his cheeks.

“You were grooming _me,_ Morty,” Rick says, his voice menacingly low, “weren’t you? Planting your own—your sick, sick little ideas in my head, right? Innocent little stupid Morty, right? If you even _are_ my Morty.”

 _My Morty._ Morty’s so fucked in the head that he can’t help but fixate on those words. It really feels, in some really fucked up way, like Rick’s giving him some credit here.

 “H-how could I g-groom... how could I do that?” Morty says, “that’s—it’s not possible, Rick!”

“Yes. It _is_ ,” Rick says, and Morty finds himself almost convinced by how sure he is about it. He catches himself. It’s impossible. “T-taking advantage of me while I’m so blasted. Even I wouldn’t do that, Morty. You’re a real freak, Morty.”

“Y-y-y-you stuck so many—so many—so _MANY_ things up my b-butt, Rick!” Morty shouts between gasps, desperate. If anyone’s upstairs, he’s fucked.

“That was for _SCIENCE_ ,” Rick shouts back, his grip hurting Morty’s arms. “You wanna fight again? Bet you’ve jerked off to that fantasy before too, huh? Did you—did you jerk off after, too?”

Morty shakes his head, struggling. “Just—j-just let me go! I _hate_ you!”

“How can I?” Rick says, “Confused victim over here.” He kisses Morty, and as Morty freezes against him, pushes him away so he falls backwards on the couch.

Morty whimpers loudly, trembling as he stares up at the ceiling, arms suspended over his chest like he’s paralyzed. He waits for Rick to punch him, to kick him off the couch, to yell at him, something violent and senseless so they can move on. _He's_ confused, not Rick, who's never confused about anything, who sometimes, at the most, suspends his disbelief.

“Shut _up.”_ Rick grabs his shirt, jerking Morty back up, Morty’s shirt splitting at the seams. “Shut _up, shut up_ , _FUCK_ , stop CRYING already!”

 Morty can’t. He just can’t. He keeps blubbering, unsure if he’s apologizing or explaining himself or just plain wailing. Rick shakes him like he’s a broken remote, and Morty can see him looking wild through his tears as Rick digs his fingers into Morty’s face and kisses him again, the taste of it salty. Morty buckles the second time and Rick holds him up, then swipes angrily at Morty’s face with the palms of his hands. Morty knows it’s to shut him up; Rick’s lips are pushing hard enough to bruise. Morty crawls into his lap, needing more of it anyway.

Rick groans when Morty fits his legs over his hips, low in the back of his throat, the sound going directly to Morty’s cock. And the craziest part is that Morty can feel the hard, clothed press of Rick’s cock against his thighs, a sure marker that Rick isn't fucking around, that he's not about to turn Morty in for being a disgusting grandson.

“Fuck, Morty,” Rick whispers into his mouth, reeling Morty in further, " _fuck_.”

“R-rick,” Morty mumbles, and pulls back to push his face into Rick’s shirt. Rick’s arms come around him, then slip lower down his back.

“You… you been thinking about Grandpa sticking things up your ass this whole time?”

It's a little gross, but technically true whether Morty craves the feeling of their chests pressing together or not.

“Right?” Rick prompts, mouthing his neck.

“Y-yeah,” Morty whispers back shakily.

“Fuck,” Rick repeats, sounding surprised. “Did you like it? Did you like having them up there?” As he says _there,_ his finger runs down the seam of Morty’s jeans, over his ass.

Morty shakes his head, even as he remembers that one time—just that one time—he did, a little bit. “I-I've just been thinking about you.”

Rick lets out a shuddering breath.

“E-even if you think my body’s disgusting,” Morty adds, a little proud of that reaction. He dries his face on Rick’s shirt and sits back, daring to look up. Rick’s eyes are still tinted yellow, but less wild than before.

“I lied,” Rick says, and his hands start slipping up Morty’s shirt, each hand big enough to stretch across Morty’s back, his torso. Something blossoms across Morty’s chest when he says that, and he wraps his arms around Rick’s neck and buries his head in the crook of it. Rick hums, fingers trailing up and down Morty's chest and back, then moving to curl back over his ass. Morty arches his back, rubbing his trapped dick against Rick’s belt, his stomach.

“Jesus,” Rick says, “ _Christ,_ Morty—”

Morty hears the front door open. Rick pushes him away like he’s on fire and Morty scrambles to the edge of the couch, finding the abandoned throw pillow and pushing it back down in his own lap. He wipes his mouth and forehead with the back of his arm, knowing he’s red-eyed, red-faced, and very, very sweaty. Rick leans back on the couch and rests his ankle on his knee. Morty sees his erection, big and imposing under his pants, before he adjusts it and bunches up the side of his coat over it. It makes him bite his own bottom lip. Rick catches his eye as he does that and glares at him, then looks straight ahead at the TV. Morty sees him adjust himself again.

Summer walks into the living room, texting, looking more downtrodden than usual. She falls into the armchair next to Morty, who’s trying his best to appear not red and sweaty.

“Hey, Morty,” she says, “hey Grandpa Rick. What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“How’s it—” Rick clears his throat, “how’s it hanging, Summer?”

“Crappy,” Summer sighs, reclining sideways on the armchair, “I went with Thomas to Megan’s party last night and he just made me miserable talking about some stupid TV show. I barely got to mingle. And then I stayed over and it was weird and awkward.”

“Wow,” Rick says unenthusiastically. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his flask,  “that… that sounds just awful.”

 “It is!” Summer crosses her arms. “Being a teenager sucks.”

“I-I know, right?” Morty offers.

“What would you know, Morty?” Rick asks, taking a swig and belching loudly. “Y-you’ve barely experienced a fraction of it.”

“I still know!” Morty says, “I’ve been through things most 80-year-olds haven’t. Most people!”

“Give it up, Morty. You’re starting to sound like your dad,” Rick says. Morty turns his head to look at him, and Rick doesn’t look back at him this time.

“I know it doesn't mean anything in the big picture of things,” Summer says, “but it's my life right now. Grandpa Rick, should I keep dating him?”

“He sounds like a drag,” Rick says. He's got the remote back in hand, flipping through channels again. “You can do be _ghh_ tter.”

“You're right,” Summer says. She starts texting rapidly. Morty just thinks about how Rick would never offer even that scrap of advice to him. He’d just rip into Morty’s dating prospects like he already had, which… that wasn't advice; that was just cruel. The anger from yesterday is at his mind’s doorstep again, this time rawer, harder to control, waiting to be let inside. It drains the desire out of him. He tosses the pillow aside and stands up. Neither Summer nor Rick say anything as Morty leaves and walks through the foyer and up the stairs, shutting the door to his room.

He's resigned to just try and sleep it off, to maybe beg Rick tomorrow to wipe both of their memories, everything except the memory of them on the way to brunch, so they can be rid of this. But ten minutes haven't even passed when rick bursts into his room, closing the door behind him and dragging Morty's desk chair over to barricade it.

Morty gets up on his elbows from where he’s lying on his bed. “Rick, if you're here to be a dick—”

“I'm not,” Rick says in a low voice. He crawls over the mattress, flopping down over Morty’s body. Morty squirms, body heat already rushing south despite himself. “I'm here _for_ some dick.”

Morty feels dizzy from the emotional whiplash. “Huh?”

“Thought that was what you wanted,” Rick says, arms on either side of Morty’s shoulders. He leans in and mouths Morty under his chin, flattening his tongue on the soft skin above Morty’s throat. It’s warm and wet and sends shivers down his body in waves. He breathes hard, trying to stay quiet, trying to understand. Rick pauses and draws back to look at him. His eyes look less yellow since they kissed; the tint’s dissolved into thick, faded rings around his irises. “Isn’t it? Because you’re giving me some mixed signals right now.”

“Y-you know, that’s pretty hilarious coming from _you_ ,” Morty says, voice hitching as Rick leans in and continues to tongue his neck, “b-because you had no problem switching back and forth from being an—an asshole.”

 “Shh, Morty, Morty,” Rick says, planting a kiss under his jaw and smoothing Morty’s hair back. He rubs his thumb into the lines between Morty’s eyebrows until Morty relaxes the muscles there. “Don’t worry about that, that’s—that’s not us in here right now. That’s just out there.”

“Yeah, r-right,” Morty says, as Rick runs his thumbs down his cheeks again, “in here you just call me ugly.”

Rick tsks. “I never said that, dummy.”

“Yes you _did,_ ” Morty insists. “You _did!_ ”

“Didn’t mean it,” Rick says dismissively, like he’s already bored of the conversation. He kisses Morty’s forehead, then his nose, then his lips, lingering long enough for Morty to close his eyes. Then Rick kisses his chin, his hands twitching next to Morty’s hips, waiting for him. “Sooo…”

“W-well… you know... just be nice, Rick,” Morty says, his voice smaller than he’d have liked.

He expects Rick to make fun of him for it, but Rick just says, quiet enough to make Morty shiver again, “Sure, baby.”

He slides Morty’s shirt up past his nipples, up to his chin. Morty can see the thick outline of Rick’s dick through his pants, the tip of it stained with precum. He remembers that Rick gave up on his underwear.

“Quit shaking,” Rick says, a hint of annoyance that Morty knows he quickly swallows down, because he looks away, past Morty’s shoulder. “Grandpa’s not gonna hurt you, okay? I-I just wanna make you feel good.”

Morty nods and tries to relax, but the shivering is beyond his control. He tries to hold his own arms in place as Rick moves his hands down his sides, until they hit the waistband of his jeans. Rick digs his thumbs in between the denim and Morty’s hips and slides them around to the front, where he undoes the button of Morty’s fly. Morty’s dick is hard against it, lifting his underwear through the gap once Rick unzips it.

Rick makes an appreciative noise and jerks Morty’s jeans down to his knees, then his ankles, and tosses them aside. Rick sheds his labcoat, throwing it on Morty’s floor with a thump, most likely from the flask, or flasks, in his pockets. He reaches over and pulls Morty’s arms apart, then sits back on his heels, surveying Morty, still holding his hands.

“You look so good like this,” Rick says, quiet, private, and _nice_ , which is arousing enough on its own. Morty already feels like he's at a breaking point. Rick lets go of his hands and places sloppy, wet kisses on Morty’s stomach as he makes his way down, stopping to rub his face into Morty’s belly. Morty’s dick won't stop twitching with need the same way his heart won't calm down, no matter how many shaky deep breaths he tries to take. Rick pulls Morty’s underwear off and rests his head on Morty’s hip, facing his boner. Morty can feel his hot breath on it, before Rick opens his mouth and lazily draws his tongue around the base, his wild hair tickling the insides of Morty’s thighs.

“Oooh,” Morty cries, before Rick reaches up and clamps his hand shut over Morty’s mouth.

“Summer’s downstairs,” Rick whispers, breath hitting warm against Morty’s wet dick, making him squirm, “just try, okay? It’s not that I don’t love hearing your voice, I-I-I’m just not really interested in, you know, explaining it.”

Morty’s eyes go wide behind Rick’s hand. He does? Rick gets up on his knees, hand still firm on Morty’s mouth. It’s a little hard for Morty to breathe through his nose, especially through the acidic stench that clings to Rick’s hand. His own hand is so small over the back of it, his fingertips barely the size of Rick’s knuckles. _Little baby hands._ He’s not wrong, Morty thinks, a little less miserable about it when Rick feels so big, so whole around him.

Rick watches Morty as he puts his mouth over the head of Morty’s dick and sucks, and Morty can’t help but make another noise into his palm, trying to pull Rick’s hand down from his nose. Rick’s hand doesn’t budge and he sucks harder on Morty's cock, like he’s punishing him. Morty’s eyes roll back in his head, hips twitching uncontrollably.

“God, would love to hear you, though,” Rick says after a while, lifting his mouth, Morty’s precum hanging in strings from his lips, before he dips his head again and Morty feels his warm tongue on his balls. Rick strokes his thigh with his other hand, then wraps it around Morty’s dick, working it into his movements. Morty just holds Rick’s hand down to his mouth, Rick’s palm slick with his spit, making noises into it as Rick makes noises that are twice as dirty, not only from his lips and his tongue but the constant appreciative groans that come from the back of his own throat, like Morty’s the tastiest thing he's had in awhile, tastier than bottomless pancakes. He gets Morty in all in one gulp, his nose pressed into Morty’s pubes, his drool coating Morty’s balls.

It doesn't take much for Morty to feel like he’s about to cum, the only previous deterrent his own nervousness. He tries to warn Rick by reaching down and grabbing his hair as his chest hitches with how close he is. Rick’s still jerking him off with his other hand, slick noises loud in the quiet room, and his palm moves over Morty’s mouth, his thumb slipping in between Morty’s lips. Morty sucks on it to keep from crying out.

He has to close his eyes when it hits him, feet kicking out against Rick’s sides. He still makes a high-pitched whine, trying not to shake the mattress too much. Rick buries his nose in Morty’s crotch as he sucks it all out of him, free hand rubbing Morty’s balls like he’s milking every last drop. Morty can feel him breathing hard from his nostrils, huffs that sound almost angry. When Morty gets oversensitive and pushes at Rick’s head, Rick finally pulls back, taking his hand out of Morty’s mouth and sliding it down Morty’s sweaty chest in a futile attempt to dry his palm.

“Mmmm, Morty,” Rick says, laying over him again so they’re chest to chest. Morty realizes quickly that it’s becoming his favorite position. “Morty… y-you taste so good, baby.”

Morty blushes, his hands coming up to his own cheeks. “R-really?”

“ _So_ good,” Rick repeats. He burps into the mattress next to Morty’s shoulder instead of into Morty’s face, to Morty’s relief. He _is_ trying to be nice. “ _Fuuck_ , it’s driving me nuts, Morty, you’re—you’re driving me nuts, baby.”

Morty starts feeling braver, even as the numbness of his orgasm wears off. He’s still horny, Rick is still on top of him, and he’s _complimenting_ him. The anger feels like a distant memory; he can’t even remember the reason he was angry. Sure, yeah, Rick was a dick. He’s always a dick. That's just the way he is. And right now, his dick is rubbing against Morty’s ass, Rick’s fly rough against Morty’s balls. Rick closes his eyes as he pushes his crotch in deeper, then leans forward, biting at Morty’s neck.

Morty pushes his hips down in turn and Rick curses and leans down to unbutton and unzip his fly, freeing his dick. It’s a lot bigger than Morty’s, especially when they’re right next to each other and Morty’s dick is only just beginning to plump up again.

Rick strokes himself a couple times, long, purposeful strokes, and Morty sees the precum drip over his fingers. When Morty reaches out with both hands and takes it, Rick lets go, his hands falling to his sides. He watches as Morty strokes him back and forth, chewing on his bottom lip. Morty tries to do what he likes to himself, and when he grips him a little harder Rick tips his head back and groans before he catches himself, glancing back over his shoulder like someone’s at the door right now.

“God, Morty,” Rick says, turning back to look at him, “This is so hard, I-I wanna scream, I wanna hear your voice—”

"Shhh,” Morty tells him, and Rick actually shuts up. “We need to be quiet.”

“Okay,” Rick whispers, putting his hands over Morty’s to guide him faster, harder, their fingers intertwining. “ _Aaaah_ , shit… yeah, like that, Morty, don’t be afraid to squeeze. _What?_ I’m whispering!”

As if to make things worse, they hear footsteps coming up the stairs. They both freeze, both their hands still on Rick’s cock.

“I _know_ you’re just passionate about it,” Summer is saying, her voice getting louder as she walks by Morty’s room, “I get that! I just don’t get why you would even go to a party, like, where people go to talk to other people and not, like, _talk_ …”

Slowly, Rick starts moving their hands over his dick again as he stares at the door. Morty realizes what he’s doing.

“You’re sick.”

“Pot and kettle, Morty, but tell me _more_ ,” Rick says, closing his eyes and urging Morty to stroke him harder, faster, pushing Morty’s hands down to his balls as Summer goes into her room and shuts the door. “Or wait, wait, don’t, just…” He pulls his hands away and starts scooting himself up over Morty’s body, grabbing the headboard for leverage. His dick is close to Morty’s face and Morty knows he wants him to return the favor.

“I don’t know, Rick, s-she’s right there,” Morty whispers, Rick’s cock bobbing in front of his nose.

Rick grunts, clearly not very keen to take his own advice. He gets off of Morty and gets up, touching himself mindlessly. “Fine. Garage. I’ll go first.”

He gets his shirt and coat but doesn’t put them on, moving the chair and checking outside before slipping out and going down the stairs. Morty stares after him, astonished that he doesn’t even care enough to leave his grandson’s room fully clothed.

Morty lays there for a few minutes, then pulls down his shirt and gets up to puts his pants back on, unable to do the same as Rick.

Getting dressed makes him feel like it’s already over. He pauses. Rick’s downstairs, waiting for him, but Morty doesn’t have to go. He knows what awaits him, the things Rick wants to do to him, and just being horny doesn’t outstrip the feeling of knowing how wrong they are. It’s not about just being horny. He moves his chair back to his desk, thinking. The weight of loneliness suddenly falls onto his shoulders, like a thick blanket.

Rick doesn’t care; not really.

But Morty supposes he doesn’t, either.

He makes his way down quietly, relieved at the sound of music from Summer’s room. When he opens the door from the kitchen to the garage, he sees Rick sitting on his stool, drinking from a big bottle, still shirtless. His fly’s zipped up. He looks up and his eyes widen when he sees Morty.

Morty feels his heart clench when Rick says, coolly, “Someone took their sweet time. T-thought you weren’t— _urp—_ coming for a second there.”

“I-I was just making sure,” Morty says, locking the door from the inside behind him. It’s just a second to unlock, but he’s gotta do something to buy them time. Rick stands up and goes over to him, bringing Morty close to his chest. Morty looks at the bottle on the table. It’s only a quarter full, and he knows it’s possible for Rick to drink that in the short time he was still upstairs. Rick runs his fingers through Morty’s hair, then pulls back to turn around and fish out a dusty sleeping bag. Morty figures he uses it for nights when he’s working extra late and so hard, when even that walk across the hall is too much to bear. Morty swallows. His genius grandfather. Rick shakes the sleeping bag and drops it on the ground. He shrugs at Morty.

“It’s not glamorous, but neither is all this. I-I could take us somewhere else, if you—”

“No,” Morty says, sitting cross-legged on the sleeping bag. He smiles up at Rick, who only meets his eyes for a moment before busying himself with his lab equipment. “Um…w-what are you doing, Rick?”

“One second,” Rick says, opening a drawer and taking out a packaged clean syringe. He lays it next to a tube of percolating liquid, then taps his fingers against the table, quiet for a moment. “Soooooo… you know, buddy, I’ve been around a lot. And my body’s gotten used to _everything_ , but you… well, you’re… _clean,_  right?”

“Y-yeah,” Morty says, his smile fading.

Rick nods. “Figured. Don’t freak out, I’ll just have to administer this to you… after we, you know.” He thumbs at the liquid. “It’s just a, uh—a precautionary measure. Seriously. Don’t—don’t freak out, Morty. I’ve got this.”

“Kind—kinda makes me freak out whenever you tell me not to,” Morty says, hugging his knees.

“Second thoughts?” Rick asks, sitting across from Morty. He doesn’t look angry, nor does he sound it.

“Aw jeez, Rick, of _course_ I’m having second thoughts. I-I can’t stop having them,” Morty says, gaze falling to the cracked floor. The spot where he broke Rick’s invention is still black with soot.

“But you’re here.” Rick’s tone is matter of fact.

“Y-yeah,” Morty says, “I-I am.”

Rick reaches over and takes Morty’s hand, pulling him closer and kissing him again. Rick kisses the way Morty wants to kiss someone else, like Jessica maybe, teasing yet overflowing with want. He knows when to gauge Morty for more, when to dip his tongue into Morty’s mouth and groan, deep vibrations against Morty’s chest. Morty tries to keep up but Rick takes over completely, deciding when and how much he wants Morty’s lips to move against his own. Rick pulls his hand down over his dick again, and Morty feels himself getting harder as he strokes the expanse of Rick’s cock. This time he unbuttons and unzips Rick’s fly, taking his dick out himself.

“Fuck yeah,” Rick murmurs, leaning back on his hands. “Suck on it, Morty. Just put it in your mouth.”

Morty licks his lips, staring down at it. It looks bigger than what his mouth can handle, like it’s going to stretch it like a jawbreaker. Morty bends over so he’s almost prostrate on his knees, holding it with both hands, and puts the head of Rick’s cock in his mouth.

“ _Oh_ , yeah,” Rick says, “Morty, i-it’s so fucking nice and warm, ah-ah, _shit_ , watch the teeth, baby.” He slides his hand down Morty’s shoulder and sticks his hand under the cotton of Morty’s t-shirt, thumb massaging the back of Morty’s neck. It’s surprisingly tender, and Morty tries his best to stretch his lips over his teeth as he takes in a couple more centimeters, before he gags and draws back, his spit getting everywhere. Rick laughs, but it doesn’t feel mean, because he still massages Morty’s neck while he does it, his other hand holding himself up. “That’s… that’s fucking hot.”

Morty’s sure he’s blushing crimson, unable to respond, physically or mentally. His legs, his arms are still wobbly with nerves. Rick stares at him expectantly, his hand moving up to cradle the back of Morty’s head, like a warning. Morty obliges and dips his head again, trying to relax his throat as he goes deeper. Rick’s precum tastes salty and keeps filling the back of his throat, and he doesn’t know if it’s that or his own drool that spills out the sides of his mouth as he struggles to breathe through his nose. Rick smells musky and a bit dirty, his pubes a jungle of grey. He’s just gripping the base of Rick’s cock and Rick moves his hand to urge him to stroke it, like he did back up in Morty’s room. He moves Morty’s other hand down to his balls.

Morty strokes him up and down with both hands, trying to maneuver his mouth into it, feeling clumsy at how out of sync everything feels. But Rick sounds like he’s enjoying it, full, phlegmy, open mouthed groans that crack at the edges.

“This—this is your first time,” Rick breathes, “sucking dick, Morty.”

Morty nods, the head of Rick’s cock moving and hitting the back of his throat when he does so, still dribbling with abandon. He chokes again and draws back, his cheeks and chin wet, his shirt soaked.

“Beautiful,” Rick mumbles, carding his fingers through Morty’s hair again. “Wish I could take—could take a picture of this, _fuck_ , but—but don’t worry, Morty,” he taps his temple, “it’s _aaall_ up here.”

“I-I’m not w-worried,” Morty lies, wiping his mouth with his wet shirt.

Rick grins at him, then pulls back. He hitches his pants down until they’re over his thighs, then makes an annoyed noise and pulls them off all the way, shoving them to the side. He turns around, bare grey ass practically in Morty’s face, and drags an industrial-sized container out from under the table.

“Glad to hear it,” Rick says, flipping the lid off with some effort. It rattles onto the ground. “Remember this?”

Morty bites his lip, his breath caught in his throat. “Yeah.”

“Don’t go into a bad place, Morty,” Rick says, reaching into the giant container, “No… no Megaseeds here.”

“No,” Morty repeats dumbly. “No Megaseeds.”

“Just me,” Rick continues, clawing some lube out and slathering it all over his cock, jerking himself off a little as he watches Morty scoot backwards to give him room. “Just Grandpa.”

Morty doesn’t repeat him, and Rick looks disappointed. He comes closer, puts his greasy hand on Morty’s chest and pushes him down, pressing a dark stain into his shirt.

“Take your pants off, Morty.” Rick says, still lazily stroking himself, reaching for the button on Morty’s fly. Morty moves his hand—it’s already going to be impossible to get the stains out of his shirt—and does it himself. He throws off his shirt too, figuring it’s little more than a rag by this point. Rick runs his free hand appreciatively up the side of his sock to his thigh, stopping only when he can cup Morty’s ass cheek.

Morty’s cock is hard again, ready and willing to continue down this perilous road, and Morty reminds himself: it’s not just his cock. It’s him, too, it’s…

It’s still Rick’s fault. It’s Rick’s fault for only being nicer to Morty when he’s got him naked and alone.

“Adorable,” Rick sighs, taking one of his lubed fingers and circling it around Morty’s asshole, Morty clenching up from the cold. “Damn. I-I’m so fucking hard, Morty, so… so hard for you. Let—let Grandpa in.”

Morty wonders if he’s using that type of double-sided talk on purpose. He stares up at the ceiling, at the flourescent lights, which have been mercifully turned off. It’s just the warm light of the lampshade by the door illuminating them, casting soft shadows over their bodies even as the various boxes and gadgets throw distorted, monstrous ones on the garage door. Rick nudges apart his thighs, one hand still rubbing over Morty’s hole, up to his balls and his dick, then back down.

“Hmm,” Rick says. Morty jumps when he feels the shock of something wet and warm on his ass. He sees Rick’s furrowed brow between his thighs as Rick lowers his head, biting his asscheek before he plants his mouth down firmly on Morty’s asshole, teeth lightly scraping his taint for a moment. Morty sucks in his bottom lip to keep from shouting. The noises Rick makes are filthy beyond comprehension, one hand balancing Morty’s hips and the other curling around Morty’s cock, thumb dipping into the slit at the same time his tongue dips inside Morty’s ass. Morty jerks, almost twisting his back the wrong way, grimacing in pain.

“Tight,” Rick says into him, and “ _Mmmm_ ,” the vibrations against his taint making Morty’s cock twitch, “you’re so tight, Morty. I-I-I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“B _—ahh—_ because o-of what you did to me?”

Rick pulls away and straightens to look down at Morty. “Guess so.” He lowers Morty’s hips and hovers over him, reaching for the container to get more lube. He smears it everywhere on Morty this time—his hole, his taint, his balls, his dick (Rick gives it some extra-special attention), his ass cheeks. Rick slaps one of them; it doesn’t hurt, but the noise is loud. Morty squirms as he massages his flushed skin, only to slap it again. “If you’re trying to guilt trip me, don’t.”

“I-I’m not,” Morty gasps as Rick finally slips a finger inside him, “y-you said guilt is… is a social construct…”

“Just like not fucking you,” Rick says as he slips another finger in, sudden, impatient, twisting deeper. His face lights up when Morty grunts helplessly. “But I _am_ going to fuck you, Morty. Just like you thou _ugh_ ht I would.”

Morty thinks back on it, how he never expected this when he’d said it, how it was just a “playful” jab at Rick’s character that went south. It’s obvious, now, why it did. Rick hooks his fingers inside him and Morty’s hips twitch, slipping Rick’s fingers further in by accident. Rick looks mesmerized by it. Morty feels the edge of his thumbnail scrape against the stretched rim of his ass before it also squeezes inside. Slowly, Rick stretches him out with his thumb and two index fingers, and Morty moans, hands looking for something to hold on to. He settles on the sleeping bag, grabbing it between his fists. Something bigger, wetter, harder presses up against Rick’s fingers, and he withdraws them, keeping Morty’s ass open with his thumb.

“Oh,” Rick moans quietly, almost reverently, as he starts pushing the head of his cock into Morty’s ass, Morty’s mouth falling open at the sensation, “Oh, Morty… Morty, Morty, Morty…”

“I’m h-here, Rick,” Morty says, reaching to touch Rick’s knees, which are splayed on either side of him. Rick unfolds his legs from where they lay bent against his chest and fits them over his shoulder, pressing in closer, deeper. He grips Morty’s cock and pulls his other hand back to hold Morty’s right thigh, sliding inside, inch by slow inch.  
  
It hurts. Morty feels those unbidden tears pricking the backs of his eyeballs again. Rick’s cock is stretching him out, splitting him. It’s warm, much hotter than anything else he’s ever put up there. Much more dangerous, too.

“Morty,” Rick repeats, like some sort of mantra, punctuated by lewd groans, “Morty, Morty, _Morty,_ I’m—I’m inside you, baby, you’re so goddamn _tight_ , _Morty, Morty,_ hey, relax, you here with me, baby? You okay?”

“I’m here,” Morty repeats, too, trying to relax his muscles. “I-I’m here, Rick.”

“Yeah,” Rick bends over, forearms on either side of Morty. He’s face to face with him, smiling at him, open-mouthed and sloppy, “yeah, you’re here. It’s you. I’m fucking _you_ , Morty.”

“Uh-huh,” Morty says, turning his face away from Rick’s narrative. It’s embarrassing. Each small thrust from Rick’s hips shoots a lightning rod of discomfort up his body, and he squirms, his movements making Rick squirm, too.

“Don’t be shy,” Rick whispers, leaning down and kissing him with fervor. “You’re doing so good, baby. So good.” He keeps inching forward, until Morty can feel his pubes against his balls. “ _Shit,_ making Grandpa feel sooo _good_.”

He starts to slide out, and the suction of his dick in the vacuum of Morty’s ass makes Morty’s cock throb with sharp, insistent jerks, big globs of precum forming at the tip. Morty whines and reaches down, desperate to pleasure himself, and Rick wraps his hand around Morty’s hand to help him out. Morty can’t help but feel good at how much Rick wants to be a part of everything, how he wants to be there for every movement. Rick thrusts in again and pushes Morty up, the cotton of the sleeping bag rough with lint against his skin. Morty reaches to hold onto his shoulders as Rick draws back and thrusts again, and again, and again as he gets into a rhythm that Morty tries to keep up with. He tries his best, but he can’t—he can’t keep up with Rick on anything, and especially not this—and he just bounces against Rick’s body as Rick pounds into him with a virility that doesn’t make sense for a man his age. Rick keeps babbling curses and appraisals into his ears, then falls on Morty’s chest and hugs him close, Morty’s dick in between them, trapped against Rick’s stomach, Rick’s hips doing all the work now.

“Say it,” Rick breathes into his ear.

“R-rick?” Morty tries.

“No,” Rick says, “I mean _yeah,_ but,” and Morty understands with a leap of his heart what he means.

“Um… Grandpa Rick?”

“Not like _that,_ j— _fuck—_ jesus, Morty. Never mind—”

“G-grandpa,” Morty mumbles.

Rick laughs breathlessly, then sits back, bringing Morty up with him, both hands on Morty’s back. He does it with more ease than Morty expects, then drops one hand behind himself and leans back, slowly easing Morty down with him, his cock inside Morty the whole time.

“Good try, baby.”

“S-shut up,” Morty says, his own voice so quiet in his ears. He balances his hands on Rick’s chest, looking down at himself, at how Rick’s cock comes into view when he lifts his hips. He lifts them too high and Rick’s cock slips out. He reaches down, sweating, bending over to position it upwards. He lets out a breath, a little mesmerized at how different their cocks still look next to each other, even when Morty’s as hard as he is. He tries to get it back in and it slips, rubbing all over his ass and slick inner thighs. He tries again, hand shaking, but he can’t get a good grip on it.

“Tight,” Rick says again, as if to offer an explanation. He grips his own cock by the base for Morty, but doesn’t push it in, holding it up so Morty can get a better grasp on it. Morty doesn’t know whether to be grateful or depressed about Rick supporting him here of all places. He manages to get it lined back up with his hole, lowering his hips slowly, _slowly_ as the rim of his ass stretches over Rick’s cock again. Rick moans as he does it, hands dancing around Morty’s hips like he wants to slam them down.

“Ride me,” Rick says, leaning up and pulling on Morty’s dick until Morty buckles in pleasure, almost falling over him, “just ride, me, Morty, until I cum. I-it’s—it’s all I want, Morty.”

Morty sits down, slowly, his ass feeling raw and overstretched but still slick, as he himself up to the base, his thighs over Rick’s hips, then lifts himself. It’s hard work and he feels himself getting tired quickly, despite Rick’s groans of encouragement.

“Don’t—keep going,” Rick says, helping Morty move his hips, his big hands enveloping them, helping Morty’s dick along every now and then. Morty leans in and Rick reaches up to kiss him hard, pulling on Morty’s bottom lip with his teeth, then falls back on the sleeping bag, concentrating on Morty’s hips. “Keep going, Morty, it’s beautiful, you’re just—that’s just perfect, keep doing it, _fuck_ , _fuuuck_ —”

Morty keeps doing it, feeling tired out even with his own dick leaking so heavily onto Rick’s belly. His thighs burn but he keeps going, Rick’s hands grabbing at his thighs, then his hips, then his dick and his hands, in Morty’s hair, getting more and more frenzied as his legs shake and his feet kick behind Morty. He brings Morty in for a kiss as he pushes Morty down, deep, his cock pulsing inside Morty.

“Oh,” Rick moans, “oh jesus, good, Morty, you’re… so good,” he kisses Morty’s face sloppily, all over, “my good boy, Grandpa’s good boy, keep it up, I’m close, so close—”

“I l-love you, Rick,” Morty says into his cheek, his voice so small and high that he barely hears it himself.

He doesn’t know what compels him to say it. A part of him thinks maybe he does it because he knows it’ll drive Rick to the edge, which it does. Rick lets out a noise that sounds strangled and animal and hugs Morty close and tight to him until it hurts, Morty’s face pushed into his, Morty’s bruised eye smarting from the pressure. His cock jerks in Morty’s ass and Rick grinds him down until he’s satisfied, until he’s drained, and then waits a little longer before he lets go.

Morty rests for a moment, their chests rising and falling, Morty’s whole body moving with Rick’s breaths. Then Morty raises himself on all floors, slowly. The way Rick’s cum-covered cock slips out of his asshole sends a rippling shudder throughout his body. Morty feels a shudder run through Rick’s body, too, as Rick leans up on his elbows. He figures they’re done, but Rick grabs his hips again and slides him forward until Morty’s erection is in his mouth, sucking greedily like he wants Morty to catch up, and fast. Morty searches for leverage, grabbing up at the edge of the table behind them, Rick swallowing him up until his nose is in the small smattering of hair over Morty’s dick, stroking his balls with the palm of his hand. His fingers brush against Morty’s ass and it feels raw, sore, but not unpleasant. It doesn’t take long for Morty to cum again, this time staring at the packaged syringe next to the tube of crystal blue liquid Rick intends to inject into him.

Rick swallows, groaning to let Morty know how good it tastes, then pulls him out of his mouth.

Morty's legs buckle shakily under him as he lets go of the table. Rick catches him, bringing Morty close to secure him against his chest. He feels sleepy, but Rick doesn’t let him lie down, hands in Morty’s armpits.

“Just a moment, baby,” Rick says, and kisses the crook of his neck, “just a moment, and you can go to sleep.” He moves out from under Morty and stands up, walking over to the dryer to reach in and grab a towel, bringing it back to Morty and dropping it next to him. Morty towels the sweat off himself then reaches behind himself gingerly, a fierce shame settling inside him. With Rick quiet as he transfers the contents of the tube to the syringe, the atmosphere turns thick and uncomfortable, Morty unable to look anywhere but down at his towel.

Rick kneels next to him, checking for air bubbles.

“Do you feel itchy?” he asks.

Morty balks internally at the question. “No.”

“Good,” Rick says, taking Morty’s arm, “i-it would have just been a sign that your immune system was working. This m-might— _ergh—_ sting a little bit.”

It does, and so do the tears that prick Morty’s eyes, like the thin needle’s sprung a leak in him. He sniffs deeply and rubs his eye with his free hand. He waits for Rick to mention it, maybe ask again one last time, maybe yell, _are you crying, goddamnit Morty,_ but he doesn’t. Rick takes the needle out and presses a piece of cotton to Morty’s skin, then gets up. Morty lies down on his other side, sniffling quietly, staring towards the washer and dryer. It’s not the most comfortable, the air heavy with sex, the ground under Rick’s sleeping bag cold and hard.

  **-**

 

He wakes up in his bed. He’s naked, but his blanket’s over him, tucked over his shoulders. His eyes adjust to the dark and he sees a pair of pajamas tossed over his desk chair. That definitely wasn’t Mom.

His clock tells him it’s past midnight. Morty rolls over onto his back and tries to sleep, but he can’t. Loneliness sits on his chest like a boulder.

He takes his pillow and puts it over his face. He screams into it. He screams hard, harder than when he runs away from flesh-eating, flesh-fucking aliens, harder than when a corpse dripping blood falls into his lap, harder than when Rick accidentally tore his body literally in half. He screams until his throat hurts, and it already hurts, it already fucking hurts because Rick fucked his throat to nothing but rawness, reduced Morty to… to _nothing._

He wants to laugh, it’s so fucking absurd. He can’t even reap the satisfaction of _I told you so,_ because who the fuck can he tell? Who the fuck would listen? Who the fuck would care, _really_ care?

Morty swallows, wincing at the pain, but he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t want to cry anymore. He doesn’t want to cry ever again. He doesn’t even know if he can.

He sits up and slowly gets out of bed, ass stinging. Rick would have something for that, even if he didn't consider giving it to Morty beforehand. At least Morty's pretty sure he doesn't have some sick space disease. He takes the pajamas and gingerly puts them on.

The hallway’s dark. Summer’s door is closed, and so is Mom’s. Morty quietly makes his way down the stairs. He’s on his way to the garage but he hears sounds of muffled laughter coming from Rick’s room, and turns that way instead. He creaks open the door, peeking inside. Rick is watching TV, legs stretched out over his miserable excuse of a bed, the ever-present flask in hand.

“Lemme guess,” Rick says, eyes sliding from the TV to Morty’s face, “you wanna forget this all happened.”

Morty enters the room and crawls into Rick’s bed, next to him. It’s really cramped, but Rick shifts on his side to give Morty a little room.

“Even if you don't wanna forget now, you might want to later,” Rick adds. He sounds like he’s telling Morty to finish his homework. Morty almost snorts at the idea.

Instead, he just looks up at Rick. “Why’s that?”

Rick shrugs. “Do I really need to explain that?”

“No, I guess not,” Morty says. “I-I mean, I still like Jessica.”

Rick scoffs. “Of course you do. T-this wasn’t some panacea, Morty. Fucking your grandpa isn’t going to solve all your problems.”

“I know that, Rick, I-I know it’s probably just going to bring me more,” Morty says. There’s nobody who knows that better than him. There’s no _probably_ about it.

Rick rubs his temples. “Who cares, Morty. Who _cares_. Maybe… maybe we should just go to Shoney’s again tomorrow. I-I’ll call the school for you, your mom will never know. Who gives a fuck. I want more pancakes.”

Morty puts his arm over Rick’s chest, bringing him closer. He looks up at the diagrams, the blueprints, completed ideas against the series of equations that even Rick hasn’t solved… yet. Rick puts his arm around him, fingers hanging over his ribs. He takes a deep swig from his flask. Some otherworldly sitcom plays on his small TV.

Morty says, “Sure, Rick.”

 

 

 

 

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it! thank you for the love and comments, and feedback is always appreciated <3
> 
> big shoutout to my homie whose valuable editing and eye for detail really helped kick this story up a notch. you know who you are!


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